


Hangovers

by librarian_of_velaris



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hangover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-03-28 18:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13909698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarian_of_velaris/pseuds/librarian_of_velaris
Summary: Each member of the Inner Circle experiences their own, personal hangover, with each chapter featuring a new member.





	1. Rhysand

"Rhys. Get up."

Rhys stirred, groaning. This was the worst headache of his life. It was like someone was taking an anvil to his skull. The pain would throb, recede, and return with a vengeance. This was worse than any injury from the battlefield, he'd decided. He'd take a broken leg, arm, coccyx, anything, over this torture. Over this headache.

 _Cauldron, mother, ANYONE, make it stop_ , he pleaded silently as the pain moved from his temples, to the back of his head, and down his spine. I can't take it.

"Aww, poor baby High Lord can't handle his liquor," Feyre teased, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. Rhys couldn't help but cringe.

 _Volume, darling,_ he sent down the bond.

She chucked a pillow at him. "You need to get up. Kallias and Viviane are on their way. They've planned this visit for months, and your hangover's not going to change that."

Rhys tried to speak but no words came out. _Water_?

Feyre could hear his desperation.

_Fine. But you had better be out of that bed by the time I come back._

She left to the kitchen, leaving Rhys on his own.

He tried to sit up. It was near-impossible, the pain from his head shooting down the rest of his body, aching to lay back down, to sleep. To avoid this torture.

Feyre returned to see Rhys on his knees, curled up in a ball.

 _Oh Rhys…_ she started down the bond, _as much as I feel bad for you, you're the one who decided four shots of the finest liquor after an entire bottle of wine was a good idea. And then decided that he needed yet another bottle of wine._

 _...I would never-_ he paused, thinking _. Can't you just heal me and put me out of my misery?_

 _Nope_. She retorted. _I'd like to think of this as a learning experience_.

 _You, my darling, are being incredibly cruel,_ he shot back, again trying to sit up as Feyre handed him the cup of water.

_I'm not the one who decided it'd be a great idea to jump off the House of Wind. Drunk._

Rhys paused.

_I…What? No._

_Oh, Rhys, you did. You unfurled your wings, flapping them senselessly, and ended up in the Sidra after you decided that flapping was too much effort. It was unforgettable. Truly a sight to see. A High Lord, falling right into the river._ She sent images of the previous night down the bond, chuckling to herself.

_Who…saw this?_

_Oh, Mor won't let you live it down. Neither will Cass. Or Az. Or Amren. Or Velaris, really. We had to pull you out of the Sidra. Everyone saw._

_Did I-did I say anything?_

_What do you think? You kept going on and on about your wingspan, how it was SO large and that if anyone needed proof, they could ask me. Oh, you also mentioned that you were willing to prove it. To everyone. In the middle of the square._

Rhys gawked at her, unable to remember any of what transpired last night. _Did I…_

 _Thankfully, no. I flew you home as soon as you started to go on about how back in the day, you, Cassian, and Azriel would compare wingspans to see who…_ She trailed off, sending images of the Inner Circle-laughing at their High Lord, stumbling and drunk off his ass-down the bond.

 _Okay, enough talk, Rhys, you need to get out of bed_. Feyre kissed his brow. _Drink the water I brought you and meet me downstairs. I'll be waiting._ And with that, she strolled out of their room, down the steps, and towards the dining room.

Rhys took a gulp of water.

Big mistake.

In seconds he was running to the bathroom, emptying the contents of his stomach over the toilet, only burning liquid filling the bowl.

Mother help me, he prayed as he heaved. And heaved.

He took another gulp of water.

Again, he rushed to the toilet to empty any and all liquid from his body, nausea overpowering his being.

 _Looks like someone doesn't know that he's supposed to sip water, not gulp it,_ Feyre crooned from the dining room.

 _Looks like_ someone _neglected to tell me that_ , he spat back, annoyance on every word.

_Poor High Lord can't take care of himself without his mate. Come downstairs. I have something that might help you._

Rhys dragged his body out of the bedroom and down the steps, the pounding in his head and the nausea in his stomach growing with every step he took.

Feyre took in Rhys, disheveled hair and all, as he stumbled into the dining room. And saw food. So much food. Plates and plates of his favorite dishes, all brought in from Sevenda's restaurant.

Rhys mouthed a silent thank you and dug in.

"Save some of that for us, we are your guests, after all."

Rhys looked up-mouth full of food-to see Kallias standing above him, Viviane and Feyre snickering and watching the interaction.

"Welcome to Velaris, Kallias," Rhys said, in between bites of food, "have a seat, enjoy some of Sevenda's greatest treats, and we can discuss Viviane's new position as High Lady of the Winter Court."

Viviane beamed at the mention of her new title as she took her place at the table beside her husband and dug in.

"So, Feyre mentioned you're not feeling all too well this morning, Rhysand. I've been told it's quite the story. Do tell."


	2. Azriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel wakes up feeling great. Elain and his shadows, however, aren't feeling too hot.

Azriel awoke to see Elain scrambling for the nearest toilet.

“Elain, love, what’s wrong?” he cried.

He commanded his shadows to go to her, to comfort her as she gagged and heaved but…they wouldn’t budge. The shadows remained at his sides, sprawled about over and under the bed, barely able to move. 

_Go, hold her hand, surround her,_ help _her,_ Az begged. 

As if they could hear the pleading in his voice, they tried to move, but didn’t get very far from the bed before collapsing onto the stone floor, tangled together in wisps of darkness. 

_Get up—_

They refused.

Azriel was getting angry. His shadows _never_ disobeyed. Especially when it came to Elain. Most days, it seemed like she had more control over them than he did. When they weren’t out on the Shadowsinger’s assignments, his shadows could be found in the garden, planting gardenias and peonies beside Elain, happily keeping her company while Az trained nearby. 

She was the only person the shadows would keep company, the only person they truly adored, so he saw no reason why they wouldn’t be helping her now. 

_Unless…_ No. They _did_ go out to Rita’s last night with the rest of the Inner Circle, but Az hadn’t had that much to drink. At least…not that he remembered. The whole night was a blur, his only memory consisting of twirling Elain around and around, dancing with her throughout the night. 

But Az never danced. 

“Hey, Elain, do you remember—” she stumbled back into bed, curling herself up right next to him. He wrapped his wings around her, nestling her cool body next to his. 

“What’s the matter, love?” he whispered, pushing her brown knotted, morning hair out of her face and behind her ear. 

She buried herself into Azriel’s chest, murmuring something unintelligible. 

He kissed her forehead softly. “Elain. Talk to me.” 

“Az, relax, I’m fine. I just…I had a little too much to drink last night at Rita’s. Like Rhys that one time he fell into the Sidra.” 

“Oh, love, I—” 

“Wait…why aren’t _you_ sick?” she interrupted. He drank as much as she did, if not more. He should be suffering, too, but instead…

“Rhys gave you that bottle of Faerie wine, and soon after, you were _dancing_ ,” Elain continued, laughing softly, “you spun me and dipped me and when you weren’t dancing with me you were dancing with yourself, a bottle of Cauldron-knows-what liquor in your hand.”

Az had danced. _Danced_. With Elain. At Rita’s. 

“And for a Shadowsinger, you sure weren’t sneaky when we came home. Even your shadows were embarrassed with how much you were yelling and screaming and stumbling.” 

He turned beet red. “Did I—”

“You just about screamed to all of Prythian that you were the best spymaster in the realm” her laughter, bright and soft, filled the room, “so much for secrecy, Az.”

His shadows moved, ever so slightly, as if they were trying to laugh along with Elain but lacked the energy or capacity to do so.

“Elain, I’m so sor—” 

“You were drunk, it was silly, why’re you apologizing?” She questioned, grabbing hold of his hand.

He grumbled. “No one needed to see me like that.”

“Az you had _fun,_ you’re allowed to have fun.” 

“I’m a spymaster.”

“You’re also an Illyrian who’s allowed to go out every once in a while, so stop being such a grump.” 

“No promises,” he mumbled, giving her a faint smile.

Elain eyed him curiously, poking his chest with her finger. “I’m wondering, though, why _you_ weren’t sick this morning.”

Az glanced down to his shadows on the floor, barely able to move. He could’ve sworn he even saw wisps of black falling out of some of them, much like Elain’s vomit earlier this morning. _Can my shadows…_

They glared back at him—a silent yes—before groggily laying back down, praying for an end to whatever suffering they were enduring.

“It seems that my shadows took the brunt of the sickness I should have received,” he explained, sympathy filling his voice. 

“So you’re saying…your shadows,” she left the comfort of Az’s embrace, walking over to those poor, miserable tendrils of darkness and mist, and took a seat beside them, “are the ones who had to deal with the repercussions of _your_ decisions?”

Azriel nodded.

“How could you let this happen?”

“Elain, I didn’t know…it’s never happened—”

“They did nothing! They don’t deserve the headaches, and nausea, and…” she shuddered, remembering emptying the contents of her stomach this morning, “ _vomiting_. I didn’t even know your shadows could throw up!”

Az’s shadows recoiled at Elain’s frustration. 

“No, no, not you,” she cooed at them, her voice returning to her sing-songy tone, relaxing those shadows that slowly began to stir.

“But _you_ —”

“Love, honestly, I can’t explain this,” he pushed a hand through his dark hair, “I mean, I’ve never—I’ve never seen something like this happen before.” 

The shadows shrugged, seemingly in agreement. 

“Well, Az, they deserve an apology. They shouldn’t be the ones feeling so miserable.” 

“Must I really—”

“It’s the least you can do, considering they work for you. So _apologize._ ” Elain’s tone guaranteed this wasn’t an option. She’d never been this stern with him. _Looks like Elain loves the shadows as much as they love her,_ he thought, smiling.

“ _Apologize. Now._ ”

“Cauldron, Elain, okay,” he sighed.

Az got out of bed, walking towards Elain and the shadows. Bending over, placing his hand on her back, he began:

“I’m sorry that I drank an entire bottle—”

“ _Two bottles_.” 

“Okay, two bottles of Faerie wine and various liquors, and left you to bear the brunt of the consequences in the morning.”

“ _And?_ ” 

“And, I won’t let it happen again…I’ll figure out how to ensure this doesn’t transfer to you.” 

Azriel’s shadows lifted from the floor at his apology, hugging and wrapping him in a cloak of dark tendrils.

“Was that so hard?” Elain crooned, leading him back to their bed. 

Az grumbled, pulling her into his arms.

“Let’s go back to sleep, shall we?”


	3. Amren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up on a bed of bread rolls, Amren tries to figure out why she can't remember the night before.

 

Amren could barely open her eyes without searing pain, the morning brightness streaming in through the window wholly unwelcoming. Excruciating, even. She never had the blinds open in her apartment for this very reason, didn’t care about the beautiful sunrises and sunsets Velaris had to offer; she’d seen them enough times, and if she really wanted to glance at their beauty, she’d do it on her own terms. She hated the way the sun, blisteringly bright in the sky, woke her up unnecessarily early, especially given that, as High Fae, she quickly learned she needed sleep.  _Badly._ Cauldron, not even Varian could get her out of bed before ten most mornings.So she bought those black out curtains, the kind that blocked any sort of natural light from entering her small, one bedroom apartment. And she liked it that way.

But this was not her apartment.

Unable to open her eyes, Amren felt around the bright, cold space around her. Only to find…bread. Underneath her. Sitting up she found rolls upon rolls of bread, as though someone had made a bed of the stuff and laid her upon it.

“Good morning, sunshine,” echoed a deep voice—Cassian’s—through the room.

Amren cringed, the noise as excruciating as her blinding headache.

“Cassian, I need you to shut up and close the blinds right now unless you want me to shove your balls right down your throat.”

“You know, you’re not so scary now that you’re High Fae,” his voice lowered, “Varian sent me in here to check on you—and there aren’t any blinds in here.”

_In here…?_ Amren squinted, letting the light flood her eyes as blinding pain went through her head.

Cassian whispered, “you’re in the kitchen. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you slept in here.”

“Thank y—”

“Because they already know.” He said, winking.

She growled at him while he sauntered off, chuckling to himself, “Amren? In the kitchens, asleep? I thought I’d never see the day  _she_ blacked out…”

Amren chucked a roll of bread at the back of his head.

“Easy there, Firedrake.”

She gave him a vicious grin, trying to hide the pain that coursed through her very being.

Standing up was nearly impossible. The immediate rush of blood to her head caused a heavy pounding, the headache consuming and overpowering every thought or need. She relaxed, trying once again to stand, but made it as far as sitting cross-legged before giving up for the time being. What had done  _this_? The night came back in fragmented memories and images, most of which remained unaccounted for.

Wine.

Blood.

Drinking wine.

Varian.

Pouring wine.

Chicken.

Wine.

Bread.

Amren scowled, cursing herself for the previous night. There was no reason she shouldn’t remember what happened, but…she shook her head, dismissing the possibility. If she could just find Varian, maybe he could explain things. He was there, she remembered that much. He’d been visiting on behalf of the Summer Court, though she wondered if it was just an excuse to see her. Either way, she wouldn’t complain. Varian was, well…Varian, and she hadn’t felt this way about a male before, in her other body, her other life. But if he was there last night, maybe he could explain some things. Like the blood. And the chicken. And why she woke up in the kitchen.

Willing herself to stand, she finally took in the state of the kitchen. Food. Food was everywhere. Every inch of the floor was scattered with veggies, fruits, and Cauldron-knows-what kinds of desserts. It was a mess.  _Did I do this…_ she trailed off, no. She would never make a mess of the kitchens like this. Cassian maybe, even Rhys, sure, but her? Never. She had too much self- respect to destroy a room, let alone a gorgeous kitchen like this one. Especially since after becoming High Fae, she found a new appreciation—no, obsession—with the delicious food she could now eat. And eat. And eat.

_Was I here last night…_ she scanned the place for anything—anything to show she wasn’t the one to trash the kitchen. Only to find that she was standing on top of what looked like blotches of rust-red paint, or—blood? These were footsteps. Ones that came from a small foot, wearing…no. No, no, no. She looked closer, examining the pattern on those splotches, the same hexagonal pattern that…These were  _her footsteps. Her bloodied footsteps._

Amren stumbled out of the kitchen, following the trail of blood that led out and  through the winding hallways of the House of Wind, and to the living room. Where Varian waited for her, a piece of fried fish in his hand.

“Eat it.”

Amren didn’t hesitate before snatching the food out of his hands and scarfing it down within seconds.

“What…is this?” She asked between bites, her mouth full.

“It’s a specialty in the Summer Court,” he smiled faintly, “I’m surprised Feyre hasn’t told you about it. She always makes us grab some from the docks when she visits. And, given you trashed the kitchen last night…Rhys and company haven’t been able to cook. So I brought this for you. There’s some more, if you want it.”

She gave a silent nod, and he pulled another out of a bag, handing it to her. The pain already started to subside as she ate, her headache now just a dull throb in the back of her head.

“So, Amren,”  _just ask already,_ she thought, “remember last night?”

Cauldron boil her.

“No.”

“Anything?” he pushed.

“Nothing.”

“Not one thing?”

Amren growled. “Cauldron, Varian! I already told you. No.”

He met her sneer, matching it with a broad grin. She merely bared those newly elongated fangs.

“Tell. Me. What. Happened.” A demand.

Varian gave her a wink. “Maybe if you asked nicely…”

Her face turned calm, lethal.

“Varian, how about you explain exactly what happened and why I can’t remember it before I take my blood ruby and smash it so hard across your face it falls to pieces.”

“So much for manners…” muttered Varian. “Fine. You decided to go out drinking with Feyre and Mor. I’m not sure how much wine you had, but it must’ve been a lot, because they had to carry you inside.”

Amren cringed.  _How_?

“You wanted food so badly that you told us you’d unleash your true self if you didn’t get it…even though you’ve already done that.”

“How did I not realize—”

“Amren you were so far gone that when we brought you food you demanded  _blood_. So, we found some.”

_The chicken._

“The chicken was already dead to use for dinner tonight, so we drained its blood. But you weren’t having it. You said it tasted like shit. I mean, obviously it would, you’re Fae now, but whatever. You threw it on the floor right there” he pointed to the rug, where, indeed, a giant rust-colored stain marred the cream carpet.

“Rhys is going to kill me.”

“Oh, you two had it out already. You were so incoherent you were just screaming at him for the sake of screaming, and he said you were so damn entertaining that all is forgiven. Anyway, after that you stomped off to the kitchen, saying that if no one was going to bring you food, you’d have to get some yourself.”

“Hence why I was in the kitchen.”

“Exactly. I think you can figure out the rest of what happened from there, considering where you woke up.”  

Amren rolled her eyes, leaving the House of Wind to head home to her apartment, exhaustion lining every feature. She still wasn’t used to this new body of hers, the demands for sleep, for food. For  _life._

And as such, maybe as High Fae, she had to watch what she drank now. How much she drank. This body is different, after all, it has different demands, different needs. Stepping over the threshold and into her apartment, Amren collapsed onto her massive bed.  

Sleep. She needed sleep. After a nap, she’d go back to asking Varian about last night, and this new body of hers.


	4. Morrigan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan might be chipper as ever after a night at Rita's, but the rest of the Inner Circle isn't faring as well.

“Hello hello hello,” chirped a smiling Mor as she hopped into the dining room, carrying bags upon bags of food in her arms.

Setting them down on the table, she was met with a symphony of groans that echoed throughout the room, matching her enthusiasm with misery. After last night at Rita’s…no one understood why Mor was, well, chipper would be putting it lightly. No, right now, Mor was _bubbling_ , glowing, even. Not even Feyre, who actually _could_ glow, could fathom how she could be so happy. Why she wasn’t ready to run to the bathroom to empty the contents of her stomach like the rest of them.

Taking a seat next to Feyre, she opened the bags, crinkling and crunching the paper as though she were purposefully trying to make it louder—much to the disdain of the inner circle, who met her smile with glares that could start wars. Even Nesta—who tried to hide her misery at all costs—gave her a stare that rivaled those she gave Cassian, that usually promised a fight—or worse, most days. And nights. 

“What’s with everybody today,” said Mor, her voice growing louder with every word, “one night out and _this_ happens? I thought you said you could handle a night out with me.”

“Mor…quiet,” begged Feyre from next to her, the words barely able to form on her lips, a headache overpowering her very being, making tears form at the corners of her eyes and causing her ears to ring with every word spoken. 

Mor’s voice lowered a bit. “Eat. It’ll help you,” she said, piling a plate with pounds of eggs, hash browns, pancakes, and…were those… _waffles_? Feyre couldn’t remember the last time she had a waffle. Her excitement overpowered her misery—if only for a minute—and she dug in, savoring the syrupy, fluffy goodness. 

“Actually, all of you, _eat. Now_.” Not a recommendation. A demand, straight from the Morrigan. 

With a lazy wave of her hand, seven matching plates of carbs and proteins built themselves onto each plate before being sent off around the table, finding their places next to utterly miserable Fae and Illyrians. 

Rhys cringed at the sight of it, fighting off a wave of nausea at the thought of eating anything, and pushed the plate away from him, towards Feyre, who was digging into her second waffle. 

Mor rolled her eyes. _Do these idiot Illyrians realize that eating will_ help _them?_  

Cassian—who had found the table a comfortable pillow until now—jolted awake at the plate that slammed onto the table and let out a massive groan. 

“Huh…food? How’d this get here? Wait, how’d I…” he trailed off, pointing at the door, to himself, and back to the door in confusion.   

Mor sighed. “Cassian, just eat. Please.”

The Illyrian couldn’t be bothered to pick up a knife and fork, and shoved a pancake into his mouth. Mor hoped he’d stay awake long enough to eat the rest without choking.  

She didn’t have to encourage Nesta or Elain, who were already well into a second helping of food, thank the Cauldron. Elain even got Azriel to eat, if only a bite or two. For Mor, though, it was enough. If she could get them all to just eat _something,_ maybe they’d stop being such a pain in her ass.

And Amren…well, Mor didn’t want to tell Amren what to do, and gladly, she didn’t have to. Looking over at her friend, she was chowing down on her third helping of eggs. _Good,_ thought Mor, as she finally started on her breakfast.

“Rhys, just eat.” Mor heard Feyre demand in between bites of pancake and egg.

“No.” It was like listening to a parent talk to their child. 

Again, Mor rolled her eyes. 

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, cousin.” 

“I wouldn’t be rolling my eyes if you’d listen to your mate and just eat, for Cauldron’s sake. It’ll _help you._ You’re not going to throw up.”

Rhys hesitated before grabbing a fork and knife, and slowly, carefully, taking a bite of the waffle before him.

It was _divine._ Rhys immediately dug in, his nausea subsiding, replaced by hunger pangs that gnawed at him, asking, begging for him to eat.

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” his cousin said, flashing him a devilish smile. 

Rhys barely noticed in between bites of food, even stealing from Feyre’s plate when he was finished.

Cassian, done eating and fully awake, pointed an accusatory finger at Mor. “So, why were you so cheery this morning, if the rest of us were—”  

She cut him off. “Miserable? Hungover? Unable to remember last night?”

“No I _remember…_ ” 

“I don’t.” Rhys. 

“Neither do I.” Feyre. 

As if in unison, Amren, Azriel, Elain, and Nesta all nodded in agreement.

“Cassian, stop lying,” called Nesta from across the table. Mor stifled a laugh. 

“I’m not lying! I do—” 

“Then tell me something that happened last night.” Mor. 

“I told Nesta I loved her,” he said, turning red. 

“You give me grand declarations of love every day, bat-boy,” chimed Nesta.

“Okay, can we get back to the real question now? Like why _Mor_ was fine this morn—”

“You _made_ this about you.”

“I did NOT—”

One moment, Cassian was speaking. The next, silence. “Let’s not be children, now,” said Rhys coolly, “now, if you’ll act like an adult, I’ll give you your voice back.” 

Cassian could only nod, a moment later rubbing his throat, his voice returned. 

“Can we talk about Mor now?” He whined, his voice recovering from Rhys’s magic.

“What do you need to know? You six blacked out, and I didn’t. Story over. Let’s eat.”

Rhys’s voice grew deeper, like a true High Lord as he spoke to his cousin. “No, you’re not done yet. I’d like to know why you were seemingly unaffected. As well as what happened last night.”  

“Don’t you pull the High Lord card on me, _Rhys,_ ” she spat back, but then her voiced relaxed, and she sighed, beginning her story. “We went to Rita’s and you wanted to match me drink for drink. Feyre wanted to match you. Soon, everyone was in on it. I told you that you’d regret it in the morning. And look where we are now.” 

“How many drinks was it?” 

“Oh, I lost count.” A smirk.

Confusion settled on Rhys’s face, “but…how could you…you’re fine, no hangover, no misremembering, no…nothing?” 

“Nothing. I’m perfectly fine.” She said, doing a little dance in her chair to prove it. 

“How…” Echoed the rest of the table, just as confused as Rhys.

“It’s an acquired skill, one that you all” she waved her hand at them, “have yet to learn. After all, who else is going to be the babysitter when we all go out together?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've just reached the midway point for Hangovers, so I tried to do something a little different with Mor's chapter. 
> 
> If you liked what you read, comments are always appreciated :)


	5. Feyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre wakes up covered in paint and nauseous. Where...is she? Rhysand has the answer, but only if she'll play his game.

“Ferye, darling, it’s time to wake up; you’ve been sleeping for hours.”

She groaned, rolling over towards where Rhys should be, to the strong arms that would wrap around her, letting her sleep just a little longer, but she didn’t feel any arms—or wings—coming to comfort her.  _Rhys,_ she sent down the bond,  _where are you? Come back to bed…it’s cold._

She felt strong arms nudge her up.  _No…sleep,_ she thought, resisting those hands that pulled her upright. As soon as they set her up, she slumped back down, onto the…bed? Was she in bed? She tried to remember going to bed, but the memories were foggy—bits and pieces, like dinner, a stroll, and the sky, came back to her, but the rest was…hazy. Sure that the memories would return, her mind wandered elsewhere, the need for sleep overwhelming her again.

“No, no, you’re not going back to sleep,” the same voice—Rhys, she realized, said as he sat down next to her, nudging her awake. Feyre turned towards him, to the creak of the mattress only…there was no creak, no indication that he climbed into bed with her, ready to cocoon her in warmth. In fact, the bed was…cold? No, Rhys always warmed it for her. Always _._

_Where am…_

“I’m afraid, darling, you’re not at the townhouse,” Rhys said, her mate helping her sit up. A wave of nausea passed through her as she rose, clutching her stomach in pain. Feyre wanted to curl up in a ball. She was going to vomit. She was going to throw up here and now and all over her mate and—

“Shhh, Feyre,” she heard him say, Rhys’s warm, callused hands tracing up and down her back gently, “it’ll pass.”

Feyre could have melted into those hands as they instantly soothed her, allowing the nausea to run its course without forcing her to lose her…when was the last time she ate? She couldn’t remember, but Rhys’s hands kept working, gently massaging her back, keeping her (and her stomach) at bay for the time being.

“If I’m not at the townhouse, am I at the House of Wind?” Feyre asked, turning around to look at Rhys. He only shook his head in response. “The cabin?”  _No, this couldn’t be the cabin_ , she thought, she’d remember if they’d gone that far out of Velaris. Rhys gave her a smirk—what did he know that he wasn’t telling her? “Where. Am. I.”

“I think you should figure that out for yourself,” he said with a wink.

Feyre rolled her eyes.  _Insufferable Illyrian._

“I  _heard_  that,” Rhys drawled from beside her.

“You were meant to.”

Rhys only stuck his tongue out at her.

Fine. If he wanted to play games, she’d play along. But she’d best him. She always did. Figuring out where in the Cauldron she woke up? Easy.

It took her three tries to stand up. Her legs were jelly—she would get on her knees, bending her leg, planting one foot on the ground and preparing to stand, only to lose her balance and fall, having to do it all over again. It was as though she’d been turned High Fae all over again. The awkwardness, the limbs, they just didn’t seem to want to cooperate with her. The first time she fell, Rhys chuckled to himself. The second…Feyre gave him a vulgar gesture as he tilted his head, roaring with laughter. He only decided to help her up on the third try, claiming it wasn’t funny anymore. She smacked him upside the head once she was on her feet, telling him she wished she had thrown her shoe at him instead, which left her in a fit of laughter that filled the space as he joined her, remembering her first visit to the Night Court those few years ago.

Turning her attention away from Rhys, she looked around the nearly empty room. Buckets of paint were everywhere, with brushes strewn about the room as though the occupant were throwing them. She looked to the walls, where three of the four were grey, but the fourth…it looked like…a mural. Feyre gasped. Did she paint…?

The mural was massive, swirls of purples, blues, blacks, reds, oranges—shades of every color coming together in the work, adorning the wall with a sunset over the mountains of what was clearly the Night Court. What could only be an Illyrian male stood on a balcony, watching, admiring the snow-capped mountains, his wings unfurled as though he were planning to fly into the sky any moment now.

Rhys walked up to Feyre, putting his hand around her waste and pulling her close. “I see even when you’re drunk you can’t refrain from painting me,” he whispered, teasing her.

She stepped out of his touch, looking him in the eyes. “I did NOT—”

“Look at the ears. Gives it away, don’t you think?” He flashed her a toothy grin.

Sure enough, the male’s ears ended in fine, sharp points. Identical to Rhys’s.

“Okay, maybe I did…” she grumbled.

“I think I’ll have to buy this building just so I can stare at that mural day and night,” Rhys mused, drawing a laugh from his mate.

“Your narcissism knows no bounds, does it, Rhys?”

“It never will.”

Feyre laughed, a rich, glowing sound that filled the room with brightness.

“Feyre, darling?”

“Yeah?”

“I hate to ruin the moment, but you’re covered in paint,” said Rhys, waving his hand up and down to demonstrate, “head-to-toe paint, darling. We should go get you cleaned up. Preferably in a bath. Together.”

“I’d like to know where I am and how I got here first, Rhys,” she said, “though if you tell me, maybe I’ll let you help me get cleaned up.” Feyre winked at her mate as she heard his breath hitch at the thought. She knew damn well there was no need for him to debate, as he instantly responded.

“Deal.”

Feyre smiled, knowing she’d won their little game. “The faster you talk, the faster we…” She couldn’t help but send an image down the bond of what awaited him back at the townhouse.

Rhys nearly groaned at the images, his gaze narrowing, his breathing slowing. He wanted Feyre here and now and on top of him and—

“Cauldron, Rhys. Focus,” she demanded, breaking him out of his trance.

“Okay, okay. You’re in the Artist’s Quarter. The Rainbow,” he said, running his hand through his hair, “after dinner you wanted to go for a walk, but brought the wine bottle with you—well, I think it was two wine bottles, but honestly I can’t remember. We went for a walk, and you practically ran into the building we’re in. You said it’d be the perfect studio, and you just…you sort of started painting. You told me to get out, that you couldn’t focus with me here, and so I left and came back later, only to find you asleep. On the floor. And here we are,” he said, finishing his story.

The memories came flashing back to her—of her date with Rhys, the wine…Cauldron, how much wine did she have? The painting, the need to paint her mate, to paint the Night Court, it all came back to her as she stared at the room before her, at the mural of her mate and her court.

“Remember when I told you I had to buy this building just now?” Rhys asked, bringing her back to reality.

“It was five minutes ago.”

“I’m trying to build up to something. Don’t ruin the moment,” he said, pulling her close, “I  _may_ have bought the building already. Last night, while you were painting. Welcome to your new art studio, Feyre.” Rhys beamed at the surprise on his mate’s face, at the glow that started to emanate from her body, her very being.

Silver lined her eyes, a tear falling down her cheek. A studio. For her.  _Her own_ studio. “Thank you, Rhys.”

“Anything for you, Feyre darling,” he replied, taking her hand and leading her outside, “now, let’s get back to the townhouse to get you cleaned up. You  _did_ promise me, after all.”

Feyre gave him a vulgar gesture as he took her in his arms and flew them back to the townhouse.


	6. Cassian/Nesta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian loves his bed. Loves. It. So when he wakes up without his lush pillows, without Nesta next to him...well, his mate has to fill in the details.

Cassian didn’t remember his mattress being this firm.

Normally his bed was soft, cushioned, _comfortable._ His friends might make fun of him for the inordinate number of pillows and the expensive, plush sheets and equally as expensive mattress they adorned, but Cassian loved it. And considering the generous salary his brother paid him each month, Cassian could afford it. If he was to be paid like a prince, he should at least sleep like one.

And boy, did that Illyrian love his sleep. To the world, he might have been the fierce Lord of Bloodshed, but when he was in that bed, he was more like the Lord of Slumber. As soon as the male fell onto those soft sheets he was asleep in minutes—and drove the rest of the townhouse mad, given his snoring nearly shook the building. Feyre had nearly begged Rhys to kick him out on multiple occasions, asking to send him to the House of Wind or somewhere, _anywhere_ but the townhouse, but Rhys could only shrug, claiming waking him up was an impossible task. Even Az agreed, telling Feyre that they’d tried before, when they were younger, to no avail. The male could never be woken up, so his brothers just learned to live with it, to tune it out. But Feyre couldn’t do that, so Rhys set out on soundproofing Cassian’s rooms in both the House of Wind and the townhouse.

This worked, for a time. And then Nesta came into Cassian’s life, and the mating bond set in, and soon, to the surprise of the others, they were sharing a room. That first night, though, despite the comfort of the bed, Nesta stormed out of their room, demanded that someone make Cassian shut up, and slept on the couch in the living room. This proceeded to happen for the rest of the week, until somehow, like his brothers did, Nesta became accustomed to the snoring. Found it as endearing as she did annoying, actually. And his bed…his bed was absolutely _divine._ She slept better in that gigantic pile of pillows than she had in years. And with Nesta next to him, so did Cassian. If he slept like a prince before, with Nesta curled up in his arms, he slept like a king.

But right now, his bed felt off. _Wrong_.

There were no pillows surrounding him or his wings, no cushiony mattress for his body to sink into. It was as though…as though it had all disappeared and he was left sleeping on the wooden floor.

Rolling onto his stomach did no help, either. Cassian’s entire body—wings included—seemed to crack as he twisted and landed on his stomach, the discomfort eliciting a groan from the Illyrian. Refusing to let the discomfort keep him from his sleep, he squeezed his eyes shut, as if in an attempt force himself back into a slumber.

For a moment, Cassian thought it had worked. He started to drift off, images of his nice, warm bed circling his mind, the comfort soothing those aches and cracks he’d felt merely moments ago. His mate soon joined him, lying down next to him and placing a kiss on his brow. “Cassian,” she said between kisses, “Cassian…Cassian.” She climbed atop him, her kisses moving dangerously lower, Cassian growling as she repeated his name over and over again, until…

“CASSIAN!”

The Illyrian jolted awake, only to be met with Nesta…and her foot on his chest. Slowly, he opened his eyes, officially swept from his slumber for the night, and looked up to his mate, meeting her cool gaze. 

“Get out.” A command, not a request.

“This is _our room_ Nes, emphasis on the our. In fact, I believe it’s my right to sleep in my own bed, in my own room,” Cassian stated rather confidently, giving her a smirk.

Nesta rolled her eyes. “You’re not in your room, you bastard.”

“Where else would I be? I slept in my room; though, I can’t figure out why the bed is so hard…”

“You’re in the bathroom, Cass. On the floor. And if you could get up and leave, that’d be great, because I need to use the toilet.” Nesta’s response was nonchalant, unsurprised, even. She would never lie to him, but…Cassian knew he’d never fall asleep anywhere but his bed.

“Yes you would, and you did. Now _out._ ” She took her foot of his chest for emphasis.

Cassian gave her a wink. “This whole bond thing never gets old, you read my mind, and then I read yours, maybe you even saw that dream I just—”

“ _OUT._ ”

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” he said, starting to stand, “but I’m going back to bed, and I don’t expect to be woken…eeeuughhh.”

Nausea crashed into Cassian as he slumped back to the floor, curling in on himself in an attempt to quell the pain. And to keep him from vomiting.

Cassian had been vomit free for nearly 300 years and had no intentions of changing that. But the waves kept coming, and soon he was gripping the toilet for dear life. _Looks like my streak is over._  

“After last night, I’m not surprised,” replied Nesta as she gripped Cassian’s hair, holding it back as he retched into the toilet, the nausea subsiding every time he emptied last night’s liquor from his stomach.

“Last night…what happened?”

“Let’s leave it at you had too much to drink, Cass,” she said, Cassian lifting his head from the toilet and staring at her.

“Nes, just tell me. Obviously I don’t remember much of it. Well, any of it.”

“Only after you’re in bed, and after I’ve used the bathroom. _Someone’s_ been hogging it all night. I’d tell you to get to the bed yourself, but I’m not so sure you can stand properly,” she said, extending her hand. The coolness in her gaze was gone, replaced by…not warmth, Nesta didn’t do warmth, but a certain softness that was reserved for Cassian; something she only let show when they were alone.

Helping him up, she put his arms around her shoulders, guiding him to the bed and gently helping him onto the luxurious comforter.

“Rest. I’ll be back in a minute.” And with that, Nesta took off towards the bathroom.

Cassian sank into the pillows on his bed, the plush fabric soft and supple against his pained body. Letting out a soft groan, he stretched his wings. He wanted nothing more than to get back to sleep, to his dream of Nesta, to what happened as she finally made it lower than the panes of his chest…

“So. Last night.” Interrupting Cassian, Nesta sauntered into the room, taking a seat on her side of the bed.

“Last night, yeah. About that…”

Eyeing him curiously, she asked, “what do you remember?” 

“Leaving…for Rita’s?”

“Really, Cass? That’s it?”

He shrugged, a silent yes.

Nesta rolled her eyes. _Insufferable Illyrian._

“You decided to match me drink for drink, shot for shot last night.” Cassian looked stunned as Nesta continued. “You _also_ thought you could drink your own drinks, too. We tried to stop you. Az kept stealing your drinks for himself, and so did Rhys, but you decided to keep buying.”

“Well, I can’t say that’s too out of the ordinary,” Cassian said, smile tugging at the edges of his lips. Nesta only scoffed at the observation.

Nesta continued her story. “ _Anyway,_ you spent the rest of the night trying to woo me.”

“Woo…you?”

“Yes, woo me.”

Cassian flashed his teeth, a mischievous grin lighting up his features. “Who, you?”

“I’m not in the mood to play games right now, Cassian.”

“But it’s _so_ much fun, Nes,” he teased, begging her to play along.

“Unless you want your groin to hurt like the rest of you, I suggest you stop and let me finish the story,” Nesta said to a grumbling Cassian. “So you tried to woo me. As a mating present, or whatever. I’m not quite sure why you did it.”

“But we’ve been mated for at least a year now.”

Nesta shrugged. “You’re the one who wanted to do it. Don’t ask me. But you made an absolute fool of yourself, Cass,” she said with a smile, as if remembering their exchanges from the previous night “you should be glad you don’t remember it. I don’t think your pride could take the hit.”

“I think my pride’s already taken a beating, what with waking up on the bathroom floor.”

“I think your exact words to me last night after I asked you to climb in bed were ‘but the bathroom is _so much comfier,_ so I let you sleep. And snore.”

“And now we’re here,” Cassian said, sensing the end of the story.

“And now we’re here,” his mate repeated, laying down next to him, letting his arms pull her closer to him, allowing him to place a kiss on the top of her head.

“Well, I think I owe you a thank you for taking care of me last night, Nes. And this morning.”

“You definitely owe me, but for now, sleep. You need it. Plus, I think there are some dreams you’d like to get back to…” she said, trailing off as exhaustion washed over her and she fell asleep, dreaming of their drunken night. Nesta would never admit it, especially not to her mate, but she always enjoyed his incessant flirting and games. For as much as it was stupid, for as angry as it made her, Cassian always knew how to push her buttons. And that was exactly what she needed. And now, she dreamed of Cassian twirling her on the dance floor last night, of their spitfire insults they hurled at each other every morning when they woke up, of the way he held her in his arms in the morning, and of his snoring… _Cauldron,_ that snoring drove her insane, but she loved it anyway.

And the Illyrian lying next to her, holding her in his arms? He dreamt of the same, for Nesta didn’t realize it, but their bond—that shining, sparkling new thing between them—had sent her dreams straight to him.

Nesta and Cassian awoke that morning smiling at one another.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed; comments are always appreciated :) 
> 
> I'm also taking prompts, so if there's something you'd like to see me write, let me know and I'll get started!


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